


Kiss of Death

by sonhoedesrazao



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, enjolras is terrified but oddly turned on, grantaire is good at dangerous things, that's it that's the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:25:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonhoedesrazao/pseuds/sonhoedesrazao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s a sport,” Combeferre explains calmly.<br/>“Soccer’s a sport,” Enjolras hisses. “Flying into the air in a 200-pound death trap is just stupidity.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss of Death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trickztr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickztr/gifts).



> This is entirely [Trick](http://trickztr.tumblr.com)'s fault.

“I’m not suggesting we go after the President,” Enjolras is saying, “just…” He trails off, catching something from the corner of his eye.

In one table of the Musain, Bossuet is gesturing wildly to a grinning Bahorel. His hand makes an upward curve in the air and then he does something with his fingers that could represent anything from a firework explosion to a ten-legged spider. Enjolras frowns, briefly confused, then notices who is sitting next to Bahorel. Grantaire shakes his head slowly at Bossuet, but a smirk is playing on his lips, which close around a bottle.  _Ah_ , he thinks.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, then looks over at where his gaze has turned to. “Oh. Leave them. They’re excited and the official meeting  _is_  over.”

He feels his mouth curl in a grimace, he can’t help it. Bahorel snorts, and Enjolras reads disbelief and something like admiration in his expression. “I don’t see the point of the whole thing. It’s idiotic, at best. Life-threatening, at worst.”

As if he hears him, Grantaire glances over. Enjolras doesn’t know who’s more surprised to find him staring, him or Grantaire, but the latter seems to lose control of his expression for a moment. The hand holding the bottle falls back down before it reaches his mouth. Enjolras looks away quickly, feeling himself flush. He didn’t mean to stare, but every time he’s reminded of one of Grantaire’s  _ridiculous_  habits, he loses track of his thoughts.

When he turns back, Combeferre is watching him patiently, as if there is nothing strange with this behavior.

“Does he have a death wish or something?” Enjolras grumbles, though he’s not sure he wants the answer to that.

“It’s a sport,” Combeferre explains calmly.

“Soccer’s a sport,” Enjolras hisses. “Flying into the air in a 200-pound death trap is just stupidity.”

“It’s a hobby?” Combeferre tries.

“Baking is a hobby,” he corrects. “Or video games. Why would anyone willingly  _do_  that?”

Combeferre takes it for the rhetorical question it is. Enjolras feels the urge to glance over at Grantaire again, just to see if he’s looking back at  _him_ , but squashes it mercilessly. Grantaire’s  _hobbies_  are none of his concern. “What were we saying again?”

*

He doesn’t think about it until Courfeyrac corners him leaving the university a couple of days later.

“Do you have plans this Sunday?” he asks, an arm encircling Enjolras’s shoulders.

“I—”

“Well, you’ll just have cancel them, cause we’re doing something.”

He has papers to grade, but that’s never something he looks forward to. A few years ago he’d never use such a flimsy excuse to avoid work, but he supposes he has learned to “relax a little”, as his friends so often put it. Which is the only reason he agrees before thinking about it.

Courfeyrac lightens up. “Really? Excellent! We’re seeing R at his motocross championship. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

“Wait, what?” He swivels, glaring at Courfeyrac, who avoids his gaze by fiddling with Enjolras’s collar, like some doting mother.

“There, there,” says Courfeyrac. “Much better. Nine o’clock. Wear something casual.”

“I’m not going out to see Grantaire…  _fling_  himself to his death or permanent maiming for no discernible reason!”

Courfeyrac frowns, looking disappointed. Enjolras hates that it still manages to make him feel guilty. He has a valid point, doesn’t he? Besides, Grantaire has never needed them there. He tells Courfeyrac this and watches the frown become more pronounced.

“He’d never openly  _say_  he wants us there,” Courfeyrac explains, like he’s an idiot. “But of course he does. Bossuet and Joly have gone and said it’s really fun. And it’s just a few hours, Enjolras. Think of how much it’ll  _mean_  to him.”

He groans. He doesn’t want to think of Grantaire’s look when he sees him there. Enjolras can picture it already, the same fleeting expression of surprise Grantaire had on when Enjolras went to his graduation ceremony or attended his first gallery show. Like Grantaire was  _pleased_  by his presence, which makes no sense, since they argue all the time, still, after all this time. And the expression always fades away, covered by something much more casual, and will Grantaire says something like “Did you come down from Olympus for little old me?”, which will just piss him off.

And anyway, those were actual achievements. This is not. (It doesn’t escape his notice that Grantaire’s success is what allowed him to invest in some of his more expensive habits—and really, why couldn’t he just buy a decent apartment instead of a motorcycle?)

“No,” he says, pulling Courfeyrac’s arms from around his neck, where they found their way to. “And don’t follow me home!”

*

Courfeyrac lets him leave, but sends a string of messages the next few days, using entreating words such as “moral support”, “leather” and “radical”. Enjolras ignores them entirely.

Combeferre, on the other hand, simply approaches him Saturday night and says, “Everyone’s going, you know.”

Enjolras hates him sometimes.

*

He sits in the car in sullen protest as Courfeyrac drives them. Bossuet, on the back, is animatedly describing maneuvers he's seen and how they’re “wildest things ever”. Combeferre politely interjects with, “Wow” and “Is that so?” but Courfeyrac is practically out of his seat with excitement.

“I don’t know why I never came before,” Courfeyrac says.

Joly, the fifth person in the car, is the only one, in his opinion, expressing the correct amount of concern over some of these tricks. When he starts listing off all the horrible injuries that could happen, Enjolras has to breathe deeply to settle the queasiness in his stomach.

He knows  _exactly_  why he never came.

He admits, he’s expecting Courfeyrac to take them to some out-of-town wasteland, but after a half hour drive they arrive at an actual stadium. He’s relieved to be able to get out of the car.

“Come on,” Bossuet says. “We can see him before!”

They walk over to the stadium but move away from the flow of people coming in, following Bossuet to a side entrance, where there are several people dressed in professional gear. Different colors and patterns meet the eye in the middle of black and white swirls. Then Courfeyrac yells, “There he is!” and Enjolras makes the mistake of looking over.

Really, why did he leave the house?

Grantaire walks up to them, a smile on his face that slips and stumbles when he sees Enjolras in the group. Enjolras almost doesn’t notice it this time. Grantaire’s gear is streaked with green, forming sleak lines on his legs and chest. He’s carrying a flask in one gloved hand and has his helmet under the other arm, his hair messed up as if he already had it on. Enjolras swallows and looks up at Grantaire’s face. Surprise is gone from him, and he’s just smiling now—a pleased smile, genuine and tentative.

All right, he thinks, maybe Grantaire  _does_  want the support. And—wait, a flask?

“Are you serious?” he screeches, interrupting the group greeting.

Grantaire looks over, follows his gaze, and grins unapologetically. “What, this? Just a pick-me-up.”

“Grantaire, this is huge!” Courfeyrac says, gesturing around them, and ignoring Enjolras's protest.

Grantaire shrugs. “It’s not the Bercy Supercross, but…”

Enjolras is going to knock him on the head and  _kill_  him and then take him home and never let him out of adult supervision, because he is clearly not apt to take care of himself.

He distantly feels Combeferre patting on the back, but Grantaire’s chatting with the others as if determined not to face his disapproval. Soon Enjolras is pulled away to the bleachers. He looks back at a mop of black hair walking away from them.

“He’s going to kill himself,” he mutters to Combeferre, just to get it out of his chest.

“Deep breaths,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras swears Combeferre sounds  _amused_ , which is simply  _wrong_  considering they’re about to see one of their own lose a limb, at the very least.

The others are already in place, all chatting excitedly when they take their places. Is he the only sane person in the entire stadium? He searches the floor wildly for dashes of green, but they’re too far for him to pinpoint Grantaire.

The event begins but Grantaire is not one of the first people to go. Enjolras listens indifferently as one name is announced after the other, and watches with growing horror as a couple of crazed individuals fly off the ramps and somehow manage to land on the other side, after doing absurd things in the air. Bahorel and Bossuet identify each maneuver—“That was a double grab!”—and Enjolras just sits as everyone else cheers wildly. Madness. They’re all mad.

And then one guy does a maneuver which is apparently—and aptly—named Coffin. Enjolras is cringing even before the man loses his balance and hits the floor, his heart hammering in his chest as he watches the bike miss the guy by a couple of feet. He looks away. This is almost exactly what happened to a guy in the one motocross video he YouTubed when Grantaire showed up with a goddamn bike at the Musain. He quickly decided never to look up anything like that ever again, and now  _here he is_.

“Ooh, it’s him now,” Courfeyrac says, grabbing his arm excitedly.

The urge to look is stronger than whatever punched him in the stomach, and he spots a helmeted competitor in white and green already on top of one of the ramps. Maybe Grantaire will do one of the easier maneuvers, he thinks. Grantaire’s mad but is he mad enough to—

Grantaire goes down the ramp and up the one in front of it in a few seconds. Suddenly he’s in the air and out of his seat, his legs moving upward over the almost vertical bike, before he settles back perfectly into his seat again and lands hard, but straight, on the floor. Enjolras is not even breathing; the air he inhaled when the movement began lodged somewhere in his throat.

“That was the Kiss of Death!” Bossuet says.

 _Of course_ it was. He feels lightheaded. His friends’ shouts reach him as if from a distant place.

He’s going to kill Courfeyrac for making him come to this, and Combeferre for not bringing a respirator, and Grantaire for making him feel like he’s about to be sick. Who the fuck does this? He was flying  _in the air_. Like a maniac.

“Yes, I saw it,” Combeferre laughs.

At least it’s over, he thinks. And then Grantaire turns around and stops, and Enjolras realizes he is going to have to go through this again.

Grantaire goes up in the air once more and this time he does a backflip—no,  _three_ —and Enjolras is thankful for the whoop that rises in the crowd, as his whimper is lost in the noise. Grantaire lands perfectly, the  _bastard_ , and gives a little wave in the general direction of where they’re sitting.

He wipes an unstable hand over his face. “Is it over  _now_?” he asks Combeferre, his voice rough.

“Yes, it’s over. Do you want some water?”

“Do you have anything stronger?” he mutters, and of course Courfeyrac overhears  _that_ , of all things. “Shut up!” he says on top of Courfeyrac’s delighted cackling.

“But it’s cute that you’re worried!” Courfeyrac looks positively unapologetic. “Wasn’t he good, though?”

 _No_ , he thinks. He was brilliant. Enjolras needs to leave  _right now_. 

“Where is he?” he asks.

There’s a moment of silence.

“Sorry, what?” Courfeyrac asks.

He gets up. “Grantaire. Where is he?”

“Go down over here and cross the field,” Éponine of all people replies. “And don’t fuck it up!” she yells when he starts moving.

His blood is still pumping adrenaline as if he was the one on the air. He goes down and discovers he can’t get to the area where the competitors are, but spots Grantaire, laughing as he talks with another man in motocross gear. Enjolras freezes. What is he doing? Should he yell after him? He knows that if he doesn’t do this now, he never will.

And then Grantaire glances over and sees him, his smile dying. Why is it that Enjolras always does that to him? Grantaire says something to the man he’s talking to and starts coming over, wariness in his face.

“Apollo?” he asks, from the other side of the fence that separates them. He’s taken the gloves off, and runs his fingers through his hair in a familiar gesture.

Enjolras clears his throat. It’s like something died in there.

“I’m never coming to one of these things again,” he says, which, he recognizes immediately, is pretty much the worst way to convey what he actually means. Grantaire’s eyes widen in shock and hurt and he adds, quickly, “ _I_   _mean_ , you’re amazing. I still think it’s stupid and dangerous but you’re incredible at it, which of course you are, no surprise, you’re just great at whatever it is you’re doing this week—dancing, boxing, painting, learning Swahili or whatever the hell it was—”

Grantaire laughs, his expression incredulous. He sounds careful when he asks, “What brought this on, Apollo?”

“I don’t know,” Enjolras says irritably, “It might have been seeing you do a triple backflip! What do you  _think_? Which is why I came here to tell you I’m never going through that again, all right? And it’s not that I don’t support you, and it’s not like I’d ever ask you to give up one of your hobbies, I mean, even if we were— _anything_ , I wouldn’t have the right. Individual freedom and all that. You know. Just—I’ll stick to the gallery shows, okay?”

Grantaire is searching his face for something, and suddenly, finally, breaks into a real smile. “’Individual freedom and all that’? You’re usually more eloquent than this. Is it… is it just that you don’t want to lose your best debate opponent in a terrible motocross accident?”

Enjolras might not be the best at this, but even he recognizes the cue Grantaire’s given him. “I just don’t want to lose you,” he says point-blank, and Grantaire inhales sharply.

“Fuck.” Grantaire swallows. Then, “Did you really think I was amazing?”

Enjolras just nods. “That outfit isn’t hurting you either,” he says, without thinking too much about it.

Grantaire barks out a laugh. “Apollo! Are you flirting? Is this really happening or did I die in the landing and arrive in some sort of motocross heaven—”

Enjolras pulls him by his stupid, sexy polyester sleeves, until there are only inches separating them. Grantaire lets out a small “Ah”.

“I thought I was being pretty smooth, actually,” he tells Grantaire. There are people  _everywhere_  and he couldn’t care less.

“You were smooth as  _fuck_ ,” Grantaire agrees breathlessly, and Enjolras wonders, briefly, if their friends can see them kissing from the bleachers. 


End file.
